CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DAVID
David came back to himself with a gasp, like he was surfacing out of deep waters. The shadows and contours of his study came into sharp relief, searing and vibrant even in the dark. He had forgotten what it was like to be well after so many months of being ill, but now there was strength in his arms and clarity in his eyes, not to mention the sharpening of his psychic senses. Baelshieth was gone, really gone, and the darkness clinging to the corners of his mind had been exorcised once and for all.
He was tangled up with Rhys and Moira in the ceremonial circle, and they were both shaking. David could tell from Moira’s touch on his skin that it was because she was terrified, but he had never known Rhys to tremble.
“Rhys,” David gasped. “What did you do?”
“Listen to me,” Rhys groaned, pressing a hand to his chest. He was doubled over as if in pain. “Both of you. You’re the only two people I’ve ever loved. I trust you with my life.”
Moira stood up and stepped out of the circle, pacing a tight, worried pattern on the floor.
“Fight for me,” Rhys urged.
Fear trickled down David’s spine. “What did you do?” he demanded again.
Rhys clutched David so tightly, so close. Rhys’s eyes were as dark as a night without stars. “Fight for me.”
Then he shoved David out of the circle.
David’s back hit the hardwood the same instant Rhys let out a gut-wrenching cry, his fingers tangled in his black curls. David had never heard Rhys in pain like that, not even when he broke his ankle after jumping out of the second story window of their dormitory one night to evade the RA. The sound sliced right through his heart, making it hard to think, hard to breathe.
Moira’s forehead was shining with sweat, her chest heaving with exertion. She had held him down, David remembered dimly. She had held him down and told him she loved him, and Rhys…
There would be enough time to dwell on what Rhys had said later.
David took Moira’s shoulders in his hands, sending her as much surety as he could manage. “Moira, what did he do?”
“Some kind of bastardized adoption ritual,” Moira said, her eyes cutting wildly between David and Rhys. She placed her hands on top of David’s, tangling their fingers together. Terrified. She was terrified. “He’s the younger of you two, so if the demon thinks you’re brothers, it will attack him instead. He was trying to buy us time, he said–” Fat tears began to roll down her cheeks. “God, I should have never let him.”
This, David knew intimately, was the sharp, biting edge of loving Rhys McGowan. He would always push himself beyond the breaking point to achieve his goals, and you would be left standing there like a fool with your heart in your hands.
“Rhys wasn’t able to break the curse, but I might be able to,” David said, steering her back on track. His thoughts were coming lightning fast. He had been in such a fog for weeks that he almost felt high on the clarity. “Especially with your help.”
In the dim light of the study, with tear tracks down her furious face, Moira really was every inch a goddess, every inch as awful and vulnerable and magical. And David needed all of her power and poise to get through this. He wouldn’t survive it without her.
“Alright,” she said, taking a shaky breath. “Alright. Just tell me what to do.”
Rhys gave another horrible cry, and Moira started under David’s hands. David squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed hard, blocking out the sound to the best of his ability. He didn’t have time to lose it. He needed to focus.
“I’m going to try and exorcise him. I need you to keep him alive long enough for me to do that.”
There was an awful scrabbling sound from the circle, and David turned to see Rhys – or Baelshieth, it was impossible to tell – trying to claw his way out of the circle to no avail. Rhys’s fingernails were splintering down to the flesh.
“Stop it!” Moira thundered, throwing out a hand. “You will not hurt him, do you hear me?”
Moira raced over to where Rhys’s messenger bag was lying discarded in a corner and retrieved a small plastic vial that David recognized immediately. It was the holy water Rhys carried around with him, either out of superstition or because he enjoyed the irony, it had always been hard to tell.
Moira walked right up to the edge of the circle, uncapped the holy water, and splashed it across Rhys’s face. He convulsed and screamed like she had just shoved a hot poker down his throat. David had witnessed some scary shit in his day, but even his stomach clenched at the sound. Whatever had its claws in Rhys was old, and ugly, and strong. And it was David’s fault Rhys was in that circle instead of him.
“David, there’s no time left,” Moira pled. She was pushing through the terror and the tears, weaving symbols in the air with her fingers as she muttered incantations under her breath. If she could get through this, so could David.
Lorena’s voice reverberated through his head.
Only blood can rewrite blood.
“Listen to me, you son of a bitch,” David growled, addressing the spirit. “You’re in my house now, and you do what I say. And I say you’re going right back to hell.”
Rhys’s back arched off the hardwood, so far that David feared it would snap. David shoved the sleeves of his Henley up past his elbows, revealing his tattoo. If it was Aristarkhov blood this demon wanted, it was Aristarkhov blood he was going to get.
David flung his cut hand over the circle, splattering droplets of red across Rhys’s sweat-slick collarbones and flushed cheeks. Immediately, Rhys’s eyes rolled back in his head.
Blood magic was volatile and dangerous even with proper preparation, but David was running on pure instinct, unravelling the curse with powerof sheer, indomitable will. No Aristarkhov had ever been able to break thepact before, but none of them had been David, and none of them hadever watched the life drain out of the eyes of the man they loved.
Love,David thought with awful clarity. Oh God, I love him.
If he wasn’t able to save Rhys, he would never be able to live with himself again.
“He doesn’t belong to you,” David declared, hand outstretched, bloody fingers spread. “He belongs to me. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh.”
Rhys scrubbed violently at the blood on his face, but it did no good. He was marked by it, and the demon was bound by whatever dark magic David had inherited.
“He’s my family, do you understand?” David pressed on, even as he began to feel lightheaded. This wasn’t the spirit sickness of a demon draining him of his lifeforce slowly, it was simply supernatural burnout, onrushing as fast as a freight train. David gritted his teeth and tried to hang on. He had walked away from harder rituals before; he could do this. He didn’t have any protection, or any plan, but damn the consequences. Rhys was more important. And he’d rather walk into the ocean than be the reason Moira had to watch her husband suffer an instant longer. “But he’s not Evgeni’s son. You have no claim on him.”
Rhys screamed, really screamed, and for one shattering moment David thought he had broken Rhys beyond repair. But when Rhys opened his eyes, they were a little clearer, a little closer to the stormy black that David knew so well. It was working.
A staticky feeling started crawling along David’s tongue, along with numbness in his right side. This wasn’t a ritual anyone was ever supposed to try; it was made up of loopholes and prayers, held together with spit and sweat and blood. He was being sapped of his strength, fast. If this was any other ritual, David would tap out. But he couldn’t stop. Not when he was so close.
“David!” Moira cried, and it was only then he realized he was swaying. He nearly hit the ground but caught himself on one knee at the last moment. A searing pain ran through his ocular nerve.
“I’m fine,” David said though gritted teeth, but he was most certainly not fine. He felt like his insides were liquified, being boiled alive by the sheer heat of all the power in the room. Severing a demon deal without paying the price was an insanely stupid ritual to attempt, but David had never been one for caution and good sense.
Moira latticed her fingers through his uninjured hand. Immediately, David’s system was flooded with vitality and power, more than Moira had ever lent to him before.
More than she had to spare.
Moira sagged against him until she was on her knees beside him, her fingers still tight as a vice against his as her face went ashen.
“Moira, let go,” David ordered, suddenly buzzing with life. His headache evaporated. If anything, she clung to him tighter.
“No,” she gasped, her breaths coming fast and shallow.
“Moira,” David pled, trying to free his fingers. He couldn’t lose them both. He could not.
“You’re the only one who can save him,” Moira said, sending him another wave of power that sent an electric jolt up David’s spine. “But I’m damn well going to do everything I can. Don’t let me down, indigo child.”
David was caught between them both, his bleeding hand suspended in midair, holding the demon in place, while Moira fed him her lifeforce through the other. Rhys convulsed on the ground, teeth chattering, and David felt the magical tension in the air pull tight as a bowstring.
Something was going to snap any second. He just prayed it wasn’t the three of them.
“Baelshieth,” David ordered, layering Moira’s magic over his own medium prowess in a heady cocktail of dominance and power. “Come out of him. Now.”
The enchantment in the air crackled and simmered, burning so hot David could taste it on his tongue.
Then, with a shudder and a groan, Rhys collapsed on the ground. His body was entirely limp, his lips alarmingly pale.
David released his grip on the magic in the room with an aching shudder. He tried to pull himself to his feet and failed. There was no strength left in his limbs. Moira was in no better shape, so they crawled into the circle, their knees disturbing the ring of candles, and descended upon Rhys.
“Baby,” Moira said, cradling his cheeks in her hands. “Baby, please wake up.”
“Rhys,” David said, voice hoarse as he eased Rhys onto his back and slipped a hand under his skull. He threaded his fingers through Rhys’s curls, rubbing a circle against his temple with his thumb. “Don’t do this.”
For a long, awful moment, there was silence.
Then, Rhys’s eyes skittered behind his eyelids.
Moira let out a little cry, tears streaming freely down her cheeks, and threw her arms around her husband. She kissed him soundly, wetting his face with her tears. The couple embraced tightly, reunited against the threat of death.
“Don’t you ever do something like that again,” Moira sobbed.
Rhys clutched her closer, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice thin.
David suddenly felt the need to put space between himself and this display of spousal affection. He released his grasp on Rhys without being told, because he had no right, because that wasn’t his place, because–
Rhys hauled David closer and kissed him on the mouth.
Rhys tasted like candle smoke and the salt of Moira’s tears and David’s own blood, and David was so taken aback by the tenderness that he didn’t even return the kiss; he just sat there in shock. He was alive. Rhys was alive. And the Aristarkhov demon had been snuffed out once and for all, or at least kept at bay. Somehow, they had all cheated the Devil.
Only time would tell if the Devil would let them get away with it.
Rhys wasn’t able to stay sitting up for long, and soon slipped down against the floorboards with a thud.
“I would like to lie down, please,” he rasped. Then, he promptly lost consciousness.